


To linger

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, M/M, Memories, like really I've outdone myself in terms of angst this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the droplets of water had kept falling each night, from twilight to dawn, time had began to blur into one single inextricable web of memory and oblivion where each moment was akin to the one that preceded it in its agony.</p>
<p>He rested his head on the wall with a loud thump, drawing his knees closer and digging his nail into the muscle of his calves. It was so easy to remember. And so terribly, terribly painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To linger

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [Riz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Riz) who has made me aware this ship exists (and of its potentials). :)

Water trickled down the grimy wall, the oozy droplets shimmering slightly in the waning moonlight that filtered through the small loophole he had for a window. Closing his eyes he listened idly as they fell in a small puddle. He thought about the crevices in the floor-tiles which swallowed the water slowly - he knew by morning there would be no sign of it, save for his fading memory, ephemeral as any of his thoughts was lately.

Faintly, somewhere deep beneath him, he heard the sound of waves crashing on the jutted rocks and his imagination drew pictures of white foam crashing against the dark stone. Waves were so unpredictable, sometimes shifting violently the mass of salt water to gnaw at the foundation of the crude prison walls, sometimes lapping gently, like a lover's caress. Like pale long fingers touching his cheekbone. He felt something clutch under his breastbone as he listened to the sound - something which had crawled out of a troubled daydream, out of the comfort of a nightmare. Something which brought his thoughts dangerously close to the memories he kept buried deep inside his mind.

But the waves kept crashing and flashes of days bygone sped through his consciousness before vanishing in the oppressive silence of the night. And yet silence was better than its absence – than the days when a new inmate was brought to Azkaban. They would scream and shout, wearing their vocals cords out until their voices grew raw and grating. Until they inevitably fell silent, drained of all strength and will to live. No, silence was good. When the only thing he could hear other than the sea was the steady trickling of the condensation dripping on the stone.

On the days when his mind was lucid enough he found myself thinking perhaps that sound was the only thing still keeping him sane - the last thread he hung on to in that place, in the almost everlasting gloom of his small cell. He was certain he would have lost himself entirely if it hadn't been for the constant reminder that time passed by, droplet dripping after droplet. It would have been easy to slip into his own mind, blurring the thin line between reality and nightmare – between the bleak horror of his waking hours and the comforting one of his slumber. But each morning the sun would draw a pale line of light on the filthy walls of his cell - a line which would shrink inexorably as the darkness that lingered in the bowels of the prison joined its heavenly companion. And days and nights would chase one after the other into weeks and months.

He still remembered how suddenly the shift in the chill which permeated his skin constantly had marked the passing of the first year there. The first excruciating year when he had done nothing but ponder upon all which he had lost, all which had been torn from him, ripped from the flesh of his heart and scattered onto the cold sea surrounding the prison. The first year which had seamlessly merged into the second, the third, the fourth. More and more years passing him by, with storms breaking on the sturdy stone walls and seagulls flying in the distance, a smudge of white against the ceaseless greyness of the sky. Years which had passed with delirium and desperation dancing behind his eyelids like steady companions in his choking solitude.

As the droplets of water had kept falling each night, from twilight to dawn, time had began to blur into one single inextricable web of memory and oblivion where each moment was akin to the one that preceded it in its agony. Sometimes he would find himself laying on the floor, transformed, without knowing when or how he had managed to perform the shift. He would awake, feeling the floor less cold under his grim-coated fur and his senses assaulted by the plethora of smells suspended in the mildewy air of the prison cell.

And he coveted those days - they were like a balm for his crumbling mind. In the simplicity of his thoughts something akin to peace would briefly wash over him and the gloom of this prison would subside - even cease - for a while. He would be able to breath without feeling the vice-like grip of desperation clutch at his windpipe, foreboding the silent swish of the Dementors' cloaks. They would just pass him by, lured by the misery of the other inmates while his temporarily beastly soul rested, mending itself where the seams had fallen apart. The Dementors fed on the emotions of humans, thriving in the misery only a human heart could contain. But beasts... beasts....

A flicker of a memory appeared, more tangible than the ones before, but more dangerous. It was one of the good memories, and he.. he could not risk it - memories were able to cut with the sharpness and precision of a Slicing spell. And yet just as cautiousness made him clutch with his filthy fingers the grimy fabric of his shift, something quite near to excitement filled him at the prospect of reliving _that_ memory. He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, but it would not go away. He could hear his heartbeats increasing ever so slightly as the grimness of the bare stone wall in front of him was suddenly painted with a ray of sunlight summoned from an afternoon, many years before.

“You can’t call a dog like that Moony!” he had exclaimed lifting his hands, sure his eyes had been wide in mock exasperation. 

Standing behind the garden table, Remus had just shrugged his lithe shoulders, making his sandy hair bob slightly while he had looked at him from above his wire-rimmed reading glasses with a question in his blue eyes.

“What is wrong with Damocles?” he had inquired calmly, a small sigh leaving his lips “One of my great-grand parents had that name.”

The quill in his hand had not ceased to scratch the parchment he had stretched on the garden table and Sirius looked back at Remus with a raised eyebrow. 

“You know well there are some odd names in my family to but we are discussing a dog here. A beast!” he had exclaimed, gesticulating amply to convey the point and feeling laughter bubble within him

Remus had looked at him, taking off his glasses and placing them gingerly on the table, before he lifted himself to his feet. His lips had twitched ever so slightly and Sirius had known the shorter man had been trying to contain his own laughter as well, but he had still tried to put up a serious expression. Knowing he had needed just the smallest incentive Sirius had broken into a large grin and Remus had capitulated.

“Fine, Padfoot. What would you have me call it...?” he had rolled his eyes, sighing in mock defeat and lifting his hands “Snuffles?” 

“Snuffles?!” Sirius had exclaimed feeling a bark of laughter escape his lips “You know what, why not! Snuffles _is_ a good name." 

Remus had shaken his head in exasperation, his blue eyes wide. Sirius had closed the distance between them in two strides and sneaked an arm around his waist before capturing Remus' lips in a kiss. And for a moment Sirius had lost himself in the other man, in the closeness of his body, the softness of his lips. Then, slowly, they had drawn apart and Sirius had buried his head in the crook of Remus' neck. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft hair behind his ear tickle his cheek while he deepened the embrace until he had been able to feel the ridges of Remus' ribs, sharp under his palms and the warmth of his skin seeping through the cotton of his shirt. He had been so thin - always had been - and clad in the thin white button down he had been almost ephemeral. And like always Sirius had feared the other man would simply vanish into thin air, like a daydream.

But Remus had leaned into him, one of his hands resting on his arm while the other had carded his fingers though Sirius' hair, caressing his scalp with short-trimmed fingernails and the irrational surge of fear had subsided, replaced by the sheer contentment of simply being there. Birds had chirped in the distance but Sirius had barely heard them above the loud thrumming of their hearts which had threatened to burst through their ribcages. 

Then, slowly Sirius had lifted his nose from the soft hair which had smelled like wind and ink, and smiled, looking at the blue eyes of the wizard he had known – been friend to - for so many years before coming to terms with how much space Remus took within his chest, expanding with every shy smile, with every witty remark - and how much he had been able to tear at his gut with guilt with each scolding, with each disappointed look. 

Sirius had looked at him and had seen a shade of mischief dance in the pale orbs

“Alright.” Remus had said “When the war ends we’re going to get a dog and call it Snuffles. Happy?” 

The inanity of their conversation had elicited the bark of a laugh from him which had made the shorter man chortle soundlessly, just as their arms had clutched at one another more firmly. Because it had been a dream.

A dream.

He had planted a kiss on the blond's forehead, closing his eyes as he had whispered

“It will end, Remus. The war will end. It must.” 

And Remus hadn't replied, but his arms had pulled him closer. They had both known it was a lie. They had been living on borrowed time and they had known it. Both of them had long accepted there was never going to be any happy ending. Not for them. And it had been a knowledge that had cut deeply, because they had been young, too young to feel so old and worn. So tired.

Remus had caressed his cheek, planting a light kiss on his lips. And Sirius had wanted to drag him closer, to pull him away from this world and disappear somewhere where there would be nothing but the two of them. And they would be happy. But the world had been falling apart and with each day, with each death, their future had become more frail.

In the endless summer nights they had lain awake deluding each other a future was possible, making plans which had been as evanescent as the breeze fluttering through the sash window of their bedroom. As they had stood there in the garden, holding to one another for dear life they had both known the only owned the briefest of presents they had been given. Nothing more.

Nothing more.

And Sirius had held tightly onto Remus, feeling his heart threaten to burst and he had swallowed down the choking fear of the future, whispering onto his lips.

“I love you Remus.”

And Remus had smiled ever so sadly, touching his lips with his own once again.

“I love you too, Sirius.”

The wet trail of a tear chilled his skin as a shuddering breath shook his emaciated chest.

Remus. After all this time it was still so easy to recall his face, the pale complexion of his visage, the way his cheeks would turn rosy when he blushed, the way his thin lips would curve into a smile. The way he would look at _him_ , just at him, with that hooded look which spoke more eloquently in its silence than any words could. The way his pupils would dilate, turning his light eyes almost black when he drew him close, when he stole a kiss. 

He rested his head on the wall with a loud thump, drawing his knees closer and digging his nail into the muscle of his calves. It was so easy to remember. And so terribly, terribly painful. Because with the same ease he could remember his fondest memories, the brightest moments, the greatest happiness of his life, he could also remember the look of utter contempt on Remus face on the day he had been arrested. The look of disbelief and a disappointment so crushing he had wanted to die in that moment. He had wanted to vanish into nothingness like James and Lily had. He had wanted to destroy everything, because a world where Remus Lupin thought him a murderer, thought him a traitor was not a world he wanted to live in, a world that was allowed to exist.

And then there was the pain, the betrayal he felt deep within, the small indignant part of him that raged, raged, raged, because _why_ had Remus believed him capable of that? _Why_ hadn't he given him the benefit of doubt? He balled his hands into fists, feeling them shake for a moment before exhaustion drained him and his fingers splayed limply on the cold floor. He bowed his head.

He couldn't hate him. He couldn't be able to feel anything but an all-consuming, utterly  _foolish_ love for him. A love which had taken years to grow, taking him bit by bit, until each and every fibre of his being had ached for him, had wanted him there, next to him – and he had wanted to disappear within him. He could recall with perfect clarity the moment he had realised that. The moment when Remus had become the centre of his world, the one thing most precious. 

He closed his eyes and with a shuddering breath he recalled another summer, the first important summer of a scarce few. 

They had been seventeen years old and lying in his late Uncle's canopied bed – _his_ bed, after the wizard had passed away leaving him all his worldly possessions, including the cottage in Thetford. They had been staring at the constellation embroidered on the fabric of the canopy and he had lain with his head resting on Remus' shoulder. The blond boy's hand had been toying with his hair, like he had so often done, twisting his dark locks between his long fingers.

They had not spoken, merely enjoying the silence and Sirius had listened to Remus' heartbeats, so preciously loud, while his fingers had twined with Remus' ones, feeling the callouses writing had left and the tip of one of his many scars - of the one which had began on his knuckle and travelled all the way up his forearm onto the crook of his elbow.

Sirius had lain there, feeling the air Remus exhaled caress his scalp and it had been perfect, _he_ had been perfect. And in that moment he had felt ready to burst from joy, while at the same time he had wished to stretch that moment to eternity, etching it in the very fabric of his soul so it would never never never go away. Because nothing had ever felt so right as lying there and looking at the stars twinkling above him while the warm length of Remus' body stretched by his side, sighing in contentment.

Because Sirius had never been so happy in his entire life as he had been in that moment. Never. And as the realisation had slammed suddenly into his chest the words had tumbled out of his mouth without a thought, making Remus' head snap up from the pillow, an unreadable expression in his wide blue eyes when Sirius had blurted a disbelieving 

“I love you” smiling widely as he had lifted his own head and looked at Remus as if he had seen him for the first time.

“I love you.” he had repeated, nodding and capturing the stunned boy's lips with his own. 

And he had. He did, he still did. 

He opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly, looking at the dark walls of his cell. He felt his heart clutch painfully within his chest and he grimaced. 

He always would, even if the four grimy confines of his cell were all he would see for the rest of his days. Even if Remus loathed him, thought him a monster. Even if it was excruciating. He would never stop loving him even if the bleakness of the years gone by had left him empty of all else, turning the precious lurch of joy he had once used to feel into a bitter longing.

A longing which sustained itself on the precious few memories he had. 

His memories. They were all he had, and he struggled so hard no to lose himself in them, not to drown in the times he had lost, washed away by the cruelty of life. He struggled to keep them locked, deep within the dungeons of his mind, hoarded. Safe. Because he could not let the Dementors have them, destroy them. And after losing  _everything_ , Circe take his soul if he was going to lose  _them –_ the good ones and the bad. 

He was gone, destroyed in all but the emaciated body which still sustained what little of his mind was still there. But his memories, his memories were still alive, sharp within the confines of his skull. And it was the last thread of humanity in him. The last thing connecting him to the person he had been, to the life he had had. To all he had lost.

If he lost his memories, if his gaolers swallowed them into oblivion, there was nothing but death left for him. And in spite of it all, Sirius Black was not yet ready to die.

  
  


 


End file.
